


Struggling Upward

by volunteerfd



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Non-Graphic Violence, Rent Boy!Wesley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-02
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4255194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one would believe that he came from Missouri. Everyone would think it was a joke if he told them. If he told them. Which he didn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Struggling Upward

**Author's Note:**

> My Wesley headcanon dump fic. 
> 
> Any truly adult content is vague or implied.

Fisk had a habit of staring out his window every night, as if the New York City skyline changed from the previous day and he had to keep track. Wesley kept his distance from the window. He saw enough during the day.

“Don’t you love this city, Wesley?”

Wesley’s smile froze. Luckily, he was far away and his glasses concealed enough that Wilson didn’t see his expression.

“It is like none other in the world,” Wesley said, as true a statement as any.

The truth was, Wesley did not love the city. He should have. It was a world center of business and culture. It was designed for busy people, people like Wesley, fast walkers with long strides and tailored suits. It was the complete opposite of where he came from, which he also hated: Missouri. 

No one would believe that he came from Missouri. Everyone would think it was a joke if he told them. If he told them. Which he didn’t.

The idea of him being a farm boy was ludicrous, and only half true, since he was bad at it. He was bookish, hated the stables, the scent of animal filth, the dirt, and, to be honest, the labor. No one liked shoveling horse shit, no. No one liked birthing animals. He knew that. But the rest of his family seemed to have a sense of pride after the jobs were done. The hours were long, the work was dirty, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

Not Wesley.

His dad hated him for his obstinate refusal to do hard labor and for what his prissiness implied about his sexuality. His parents had children with the expectation that they would be willing, free help. Even his sisters–who far outnumbered the boys–were more useful than Wesley. They loved animals so much that their favorite thing was guiding a bloody baby calf out of a larger cow. Then, with the joy most girls their age got from, say, makeovers, they cleaned off the disgusting birth residue–blood and whatever else. Blood was bad enough, but when you had the whatever else… Wesley shuddered to think about it.

Even when Wesley shot up to over six feet in high school, it was a slender, reedy six feet, not bulky linebacker’s build like his brother’s. If he worked harder, actually hauled equipment or chopped wood, he would have had muscle. But why would he ever want to do that? Why would he want to cover himself in the smell of sweat until it became a part of him, to resign himself to what he hated, to forget what he could achieve, and, above all, ignore how much better he was than anything he had seen for the first eighteen years of his life?

His dad was a mean drunk, and as soon as Wesley could go off to college, he never contacted his parents again.

* * *

Strung out like that, he read like a series of Gatsbian cliches. A Midwestern boy beating against the current, pursuing that green light. But Gatsby was a tragic cautionary tale. A failure. An idiot. He was never able to fully erase his past, but in Wesley, there was not a single trace of history. Wesley wore his suits much better.

He was the object of an Ivy League bidding war. Columbia was neither the farthest nor most prestigious university he got into, but they practically bribed him to go: full tuition, free lodging, and an obscene amount of money, or so it looked at the time.

New York City was a lot more expensive than he had anticipated. He had done his research, because he was James Wesley and this was his future, so of course he did. The cost did not alarm him. Living lean, he could do. Fitting in, he told himself, he could do, because he was as smart as any other student, smarter. All that talk about peer pressure and classism didn’t matter. He was tough. He could take it. 

It was envy that got him.  He found that New York City was just as dirty as the stables, but in a different way. Farm filth was tangible. Farm filth was cow pies that blended in too well with the ground, except when you accidentally stepped on them and the squished unpleasantly. It was family members perpetually drenched in sweat. It was bugs and weeds.

New York City filth was invisible, and somehow that was worse, because there was nothing to clean. Wesley breathed in fragments of garbage, cigarette smoke, factory smoke, the destitute that faded from thought after the first week but who always lined the streets. Men would stand outside with hoses in the morning, watering the sidewalk, but ultimately, it did nothing, because the grime was in the air and the pores of the city.

Everyone else seemed comfortable. They complained about it, but with a fondness that suggested they wouldn’t live anywhere else. Just like on the farm. Boy, what a tough life it was, but who could beat that fresh air and a good day’s work? Boy, the city was a grind, but where else could you find the culture, the diversity, the opportunities, the 24-hour food delivery? And, just like on the farm, Wesley did not feel the same way.

Maybe nice clothes provided an outer layer of protection and cleanliness.  He had thrift store clothes that were fraying at the seams and cinched uncomfortably at his waist, retail store clothes that hung like a hazmat suit. No one said anything about it, at least not to his face, but he knew.

He needed a job that would allow him to keep up with his eighteen-to-twenty-one-credit, triple-major course load. A job that would pay enough to situate him a little more comfortably so that he didn’t have to feel every little thing that made him different, that made him chafe.

This is where his story diverged from great American bootstraps novels: he became a rent boy. High-class, well paid (exorbitantly, actually), but a rent boy nonetheless. Surely, no Horatio Alger hero had ever done that.

He was good at what he did, but he didn’t particularly enjoy it. He could imagine what he would tell his parents, if he ever talked to them:  _See, Dad? I’m not gay, I just do gay things._

He was nothing but professional. His clients were clients, even returning customers, even the ones Wesley got along exceptionally well with, even the ones who made Wesley almost enjoy sex. Some were clingy, and the reasons they needed Wesley were obvious; others, Wesley couldn’t figure out why they needed his services. Wesley didn’t pry, not merely out of respect, but because he wasn’t curious. He made the requisite small talk, of course, acted interested enough to be polite, but the following day, their time together would turn into a new suit, new watch, new cufflinks, a nice bottle of wine, a haul at The Strand.

Except one Wilson Fisk.

He met Mr. Fisk during his last year of school. He was 22 at that point, having taken an extra year to graduate. (He added a joint Bachelor’s-Master’s in Political Science, giving him a whopping array of degrees. He didn’t like the city, but he liked credentials. He liked being impressive.) 

Fisk was bashful at first. His discomfort was as obvious as his attempts to hide it. As far as clients went, he was physically striking–not the same thing as attractive, but compelling, nonetheless.  He was too big to be this shy. He shouldn’t have felt embarrassed when he could take embarrassment by the neck and wrench its head off.

Wesley went into charm overdrive. For some reason, he wanted this night to be successful. He wanted Mr. Fisk to be…pleased.

And, by the end of the night, Wesley had a recurring customer. One he looked forward to seeing.

* * *

Sometimes, clients needed to be reminded of boundaries. Wesley was good at that: firm-gentle-fair. Wesley never needed to cancel an appointment because of bad vibes before, but Mr. Garrett would be his first.

Conspicuously wealthy, luxury car, confident walk, commanding voice, all of which hid–or tried to hide–deep unfulfillment. For the most part, these people were harmless. Wesley did not think that was the case for this particular client. Mr. Garrett became hands on immediately, and his grip was too possessive. And the way he looked at Wesley over dinner…

“I don’t think,” Wesley swallowed. “I apologize. I don’t think I will be able to, um.”

Usually, he was skilled with words, but his client’s eyes were boring into him, pinning him down, and it made Wesley flounder. Wesley stared at the candles on the table, mind branching out into worst case scenarios. It was a fancy restaurant, one of the best in the city. If there were a designated place not to make a scene in, it would be here.  Wesley took a calming breath. The feeling in his stomach was awkwardness, not fear, he told himself.

“I just don’t feel comfort–”

“You don’t feel comfortable?” Mr. Garrett hissed, reaching across the table and yanking Wesley’s tie. It was at that moment that Wesley regretted not bulking up a bit more when he had the chance.

“Is there a problem here?”

Wesley felt a protective hand on his shoulder. People often forgot that Wesley was tall, but no one could ever make that mistake of Wilson Fisk, and for that, Wesley was grateful to see him. Never mind the weirdness of him just happening to show up, God in a machine.

“This your pimp?” Mr. Garrett asked, sliding his chair back. It made an unpleasant scratching sound. If Wesley had known this would cause so much trouble and attention, he would have sucked it up, so to speak.

Mr. Garrett tried to round his full height up to Mr. Fisk’s, but couldn’t bend the laws of physics and physiology. No waiter wanted to intervene. Wesley concentrated on his place setting, but he couldn’t continue ignoring the situation.

“Please, sir,” he said, hoping to calm Mr. Fisk down. He was barely on his feet when he was knocked down again. His vision blurred, but he could hear scuffling above him. More than scuffling. Unless he was mistaken, Mr. Fisk was giving Mr. Garrett a remarkable beat-down. Part of him wished he could see it. Most of him was squeamish.

“The police are on their way,” Mr. Fisk said, bending down and wrapping Wesley’s arm around his shoulder. They walked, four-legged, to his car.

“Thank you,” Wesley said.

“I’ve done business with him before. He is…” Fisk trailed off. Wesley already knew, after all.

“I’m sorry for disturbing your night.”

“I dine there every Friday. I can miss one week.”

Well, that explains why he was there, Wesley thought.

“Where can I leave you off, Wesley?”

“I live at Wallach Hall,” Wesley said. He knew the risks of revealing too much information about himself, but he didn’t feel any danger.

“Wallach Hall. You go to Columbia?”

Wesley nodded.

“That’s very impressive.”

“I’m, uh, on track to be valedictorian,” Wesley told his lap.

“Very impressive,” Wilson said.

* * *

Wesley had to go to class with a black eye. For the most part, it looked like a weird trick of the light reflecting off his glasses, a shadow, and Wesley never needed to think of a respectable situation for it because no one asked. He still did not like walking around with it. There was always the chance someone might notice. Plus, it was vulgar. Fortunately, it was gone by graduation. He stood at the podium, in front of thousands of people, not a single one there for him specifically.

Except–

He thought he saw Wilson Fisk but then he realized–yes, that was him. He was distinct, not a person you could mistake for someone else. He choked, just a little, as he was beginning his speech, but recovered gracefully, began gracefully, finished gracefully. He sighed in relief, not gracefully, but far away from the microphone so no one would know.

He found Fisk immediately after the ceremony, when everyone else was running into the arms of family members.

“I hope this wasn’t too presumptuous,” Fisk said. “I thought that maybe you would like to have someone here.” He looked at the ground, as if anticipating harsh words and readying himself to make a quick exit.

“That was very thoughtful. No, I don’t mind.”

Fisk looked up, surprised but relieved. “Then maybe I can take you to diner.”

They went to a nice restaurant, which Wesley was used to dining in at that point, but as part of his work, not like this. Not like…friends? He drew his thumb nail out of his mouth as soon as he realized it was in there. It was the one bad habit he couldn’t completely break.

As the night progressed, he got a lot more comfortable, and since this wasn’t business or anything, he could talk about his life. Not his family, of course, or his past, but about what an interesting, unique place New York was.

And then the topic moved.

“I don’t want you working that job anymore,” Fisk’s eyes flashed and his knuckles became white around his glass. Wesley thought it would break. “Unless that’s what you want to do.”

Wesley laughed. “No, that is not at all what I want to do.”

“Then I’d like to offer you a job.” Wilson took out a pen, wrote something on a napkin, and slid it across the table. Wesley already had jobs offers lined up, with companies and PHD programs in a bidding war similar to his college admissions. He could use them as leverage. Whatever number was on the napkin, he could double, triple it.

Instead, he folded the napkin in half and passed it back across the table.

“I would be honored.”

“There would be some travel, but mostly, it would be in New York. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

Wesley laughed, and with surprising honesty–perhaps the last time in his life–agreed.


End file.
